


Bittersweet Victory

by Elvendork



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Bets, Family, Friendship, Gdansk, Gen, Money, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-09
Updated: 2011-04-09
Packaged: 2017-10-17 19:55:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvendork/pseuds/Elvendork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because even when Martin wins, he loses. For <a href="http://cabinpres-fic.livejournal.com/728.html?thread=410840#t410840">this</a> prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bittersweet Victory

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray into Cabin Pressure fanfiction, and my first prompt fill ever, for any fandom, so I really hope it has turned out okay and is what the OP wanted...it is a _lot_ longer than I originally intended!! It rather got away from me when I started writing...  
>  I do not own Cabin Pressure. No profit being made. The usual.

For a moment, there is stunned silence in the cockpit. Martin is the one who breaks it, sounding more uncertain than triumphant.

‘I...did it,’ he says. It sounds like a question – it _is_ a question. Martin doesn’t win things – it just doesn’t happen, it _never_ happens, his luck – or lack thereof – doesn’t work like that. _Ever_.

‘Yes,’ Douglas replies slowly, his own voice caught somewhere between its default sarcastic drawl and a reluctant, underlying disbelief that could – almost, if the listener didn’t know him better – have sounded _nearly_ impressed. Nearly. Martin isn’t listening.

‘I _did it_!’ He repeats, louder, as though trying to convince himself – ‘we’re on time – we’re actually _on time_! I did it, I won!’

‘Yes,’ says Douglas again, ‘yes, you did.’ He makes a show of peering tentatively around the cockpit, frowning with a deliberate appearance of deep concern.

‘What?’ Martin asks quickly, the happy bubble forming in his chest rapidly deflating as any number of awful scenarios that could lead to such a look of worry on Douglas’s face run through his mind, ‘what’s wrong? What did I do, is there something –?’

‘No,’ Douglas interrupts, ‘much as I simply cannot force myself to believe the evidence of my own senses, there appears to be absolutely _nothing_ wrong. I confess myself quite astonished, Martin.’

‘Yes, well – yes, I – I told you I could do it, didn’t I?’ Martin challenges, forcing confidence into his voice as he does,

‘And what a fool I was for doubting you – I cannot think of a single event that could have lead me to such an obviously erroneous conclusion regarding our mighty Captain’s irrefutable skill.’

‘Are you being sarcastic?’ Martin narrows his eyes suspiciously at Douglas, in all honesty too giddy with his own success to either particularly care what Douglas says, or to fully realise exactly _what_ he has won.

‘Not at all; I assure you my every word is completely and utterly sincere in every way.’

‘Well – good,’ Martin replies lamely, not really believing it for an instant. Before either of them have a chance to speak again, Arthur appears with a congratulatory grin and a thump on Martin’s shoulder (which _doesn’t_ hurt – it really doesn’t, Martin assures himself, despite Douglas’s eyebrows rising in amusement as he automatically raises his other hand to rub at the distinctly _not_ sore spot).

‘Wow, nice one Skip! That landing was _brilliant_ , and we’re right on time! Told you your luck would change! Just think, all that extra money you’re going to get – what are you going to do with it? I know what _I’d_ do –’

‘Arthur, I really –’ begins Martin, some of the joyful disbelief leaking out of his words. _All that extra money_...three months. _Three months_ of Douglas’s salary. That’s – that’s more money than he’s earned since...ever. And if Douglas had won...an uncomfortable, itchy feeling of shame starts to creep up on him and he resists the urge to squirm guiltily in his seat. He _did_ win, fair and square – he flew through a _thunderstorm_ to win (and he isn’t entirely sure that when he stands, his legs, still shaking from nerves, will hold him) and he never actually _lied_ to Douglas – he never _specified_...

‘What is it, Skip?’ Arthur asks cheerfully, bouncing on the balls of his feet with apparent excitement. It’s Douglas’s turn to narrow his eyes now, and Martin knows that Douglas has seen his discomfort – Douglas _knows_ , or at the very least suspects – oh God, he’ll never live this down, this stupid bet, he should have swapped when he had the chance, he should never have made it in the first place, it wasn’t fair – and now he’s caught...

‘What are you all gibbering about in here?’ Carolyn’s irritable voice precedes her into the small space, ‘Douglas, I thought you at least would have left by now, what on Earth is going on?’

‘Skipper won the bet!’ Arthur tells her happily, grinning and gesturing unnecessarily to Martin, who can feel his face reddening as three pairs of eyes fix on him, and he imagines them to be accusatory stares, his brain warping even Arthur’s permanent unhampered contentment into scorn.

‘Oh? And what ridiculous new bet would this be?’

‘Martin bet me three months salary that we would arrive in Gdansk on time,’ Douglas tells Carolyn, when Martin doesn’t reply. He definitely smells a rat – and he intends to flush it out. ‘And here we are.’

‘Three months salary?’ Carolyn repeats, glancing between Douglas and Martin with an odd look on her face. Martin grimaces, and tries to silently warn her against saying anything – _please_ – he thinks – _please, let me have this one, don’t let Douglas find out, he’ll never let it go_ – hoping and praying that he is discreet enough that Douglas doesn’t notice anything amiss. His hopes are dashed, however, when he chances a swift look to the side and sees the First Officer’s calculating stare.

‘Yeah, isn’t it great?’ Arthur continues for them, ‘just think of all the custard creams he could buy with that!’

‘Custard creams, Arthur?’ Carolyn asks exasperatedly, ‘really?’

‘Well yeah, they’re just brilliant, aren’t they? I mean, who doesn’t love custard creams?’

‘Yes...’ says Carolyn slowly, clearly too used to her son’s many eccentricities to dwell on this latest of them for overly long, and turning back to Martin, still with that same strange look in her eye, ‘and I take it, had Douglas been victorious, you would have paid him three months of your own salary?’

‘Y – Yes,’ Martin manages warily – _please don’t say anything, please don’t say anything –_

‘Well, Martin –’ _oh God, oh God, she’s going to say it, please don’t say it, ‘–_ well done.’

She means more than just for landing on schedule, and Martin knows it, but the pride he feels at the rare compliment is somewhat dampened the prevailing knowledge that he hasn’t exactly played fair...but since when does Douglas ever play fair? If Douglas is allowed to trick and cheat and charm his way into getting whatever he likes, whenever he likes, isn’t Martin allowed just this _one_ small victory? Just _once_ , isn’t he allowed to revel in the knowledge that he has finally managed to get one up on Douglas? And all without any real risk in the first place of his losing anything at all, save the embarrassment of Douglas finding out about his zero pay...

But – but – _three months salary_.

Martin’s only comforting thought – and it’s stupid that this should be considered comforting in any way, especially given how much he really could do with the money, but it at least alleviates some of his guilt – is that, knowing Douglas, he will probably manage to get out of paying Martin a penny anyway.

000000

By the next day, Martin is fervently hoping that Douglas has conveniently “forgotten” the whole agreement, and that everything will be able to carry on as though the bet had never been made in the first place.

But he can’t get the image of Douglas’s face out of his mind – that _look_ , when Carolyn spoke...that look that Martin knows means Douglas is onto him. And what Douglas wants, Douglas gets – especially if that something happens to be additional teasing material to use against Martin.

Oh, _why_ did he ever agree to that stupid bet? Why was he so desperate to win something for once – couldn’t he just have given up while he had the chance? He couldn’t so much quit while he was ahead – he’s never had the opportunity, as he’d actually have to get ahead in the first place to do that – but he could at least have stopped himself falling even further behind than normal...

The sound of Douglas’s voice causes him to jump and emit a high pitched squeak that he hasn’t the energy (or the naivety) to hope Douglas didn’t notice – he looks up from the paperwork he has been staring aimlessly at for the last ten minutes, and sees the First Officer lounging against the doorframe with every appearance of the kind of easy nonchalance Martin has never been able to pull off.

‘So,’ Douglas says, ‘what can this secret be that Sir is so determined, rather pointlessly I might add, to hide?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Martin lies, somewhat unconvincingly, and forces himself to refocus on his paperwork,

‘Of course not,’ Douglas replies coolly, ‘I’m sure I was imagining the look of sheer panic on your face when Carolyn asked about the bet yesterday – and my eyes are even now deceiving me by feeding me evidently utterly falsified information as to just how hard you’re gripping that pen. I must be completely mistaken.’ There is a pause, in which the plastic casing of Martin’s biro cracks loudly – though he pretends not to notice – and Douglas shakes his head, ‘I’m sorry, I really can’t say that with a straight face,’ he adds, smirking,

‘I’m busy, Douglas,’ Martin says tersely, keeping his eyes on the paper but not even attempting to fill anything in anymore.

‘Too busy to discuss the terms of our little wager? I thought you would be quite eager to rub it in – that must be the first time you’ve won one since – well, since you joined MJN, at least – and at a fairly hefty price too, and yet you’ve been absolutely silent on the matter since we left the plane yesterday.’

‘Yes, well – well, I’ve been thinking,’ Martin says, casting around wildly for a way out of this conversation, ‘and I’d be happy to take you up on your offer from – before. The one where I don’t ever mention you pretending to Helena that you’re the Captain again. You don’t have to pay me anything.’

‘Really, Martin?’ Douglas raises an eyebrow sceptically, ‘but what about _I need that story_?’

‘I’ve – I’ve changed my mind. I can’t let you pay me three months salary, it’s too much. So I’ll never mention...it...again. Okay?’

‘Oh, no Martin,’ Douglas shakes his head, ‘you see, I had absolutely no intention of allowing you to walk off with twelve weeks worth of my salary, until I saw your reaction to the prospect that I _might_ , and to be perfectly honest, I’m much more interested in why you suddenly don’t want it, when you were clearly keen enough yesterday, than the threat of you ever daring to mention my being less than honest with my wife after this conversation.’

‘I was just caught up in the heat of the moment, I didn’t mean it!’ Martin protests feebly, ‘I really don’t – it’s really too much –’

‘And yet I’m offering it to you.’

‘Only because you’ll want something _else_ in return, and all this will turn into is you winning _yet again_ and me walking away with less than I did in the first place –’

‘No, I promise – Scout’s honour, I will play absolutely fair. _I_ hardly need _you_ holding it over my head that I failed to pay up on a bet _I_ initiated, do I?’

‘But – but –’

‘I also promise you that, should you fail to tell me the reason behind the frankly embarrassing shade of scarlet you’re turning as we speak, that I _will_ find out another way.’

Douglas is stood in front of Martin’s desk now, arms folded and a calmly challenging expression on his face. Martin opens and closes his mouth several times before managing to make a sound.

‘I – but – look, it’s too much, I – I tricked you, alright?!’ He exclaims eventually, sinking back in his chair and putting his face in his hands desperately with a groan. It’s out now. Douglas is never, _never_ going to let this one go...

‘You tricked me how?’ He asks doubtfully. Still with his hands over his face, Martin mumbles his reply reluctantly,

‘I don’t have a salary. I work for nothing. If you’d won, I wouldn’t have paid you a penny, because I don’t _make_ a penny. There. Laugh. We’re even.’

The pause that follows is the worst of Martin’s life. Worse even than the pause when Carolyn was about to announce her decision as to hiring him. Worse than waiting for his exam results. Worse than anything he has ever endured, and it is all of perhaps two seconds long.

‘You don’t have a salary?’ Douglas’s voice is oddly toneless, for him – Martin can’t tell if he’s laughing or not, and has to lower his hands to see, but even Douglas’s face is carefully expressionless.

‘When Carolyn interviewed me, she interviewed me to be First Officer, and – well, I could see it wasn’t going well and I offered to work for half whatever she paid the last guy and...’

‘And?’ Douglas prompts, when Martin fails continue. When he starts to speak again, it’s in an even smaller voice than before, and Douglas almost has to strain to hear him.

‘And – after some pretty hefty negotiation – we settled on a quarter,’ he studies the wood of the desk to avoid looking at Douglas, ‘and then...when I was leaving...she asked how much I would work for if...if she...let me be Captain.’

‘And you told her –’

‘I didn’t saying ‘nothing’! I – it just sort of...ended up that way.’

‘So it did,’ Douglas muses. For every moment he doesn’t start teasing Martin over working for nothing, Martin’s nerves grow, as though each passing second amounts to a taunt that is guaranteed to be _that much_ worse, or last for that much longer. He doesn’t know how long the silence lasts. Very possibly several years slide by before either of them speaks again, despite Martins’ many attempts to think of _something_ to say that makes him sound marginally less ridiculous. In the end, though, it’s Douglas who speaks.

‘Martin,’ he says, voice unreadable, ‘take the money.’

Martin’s head snaps up to look at Douglas suspiciously – that – is that – that can’t be concern in Douglas’s voice – no – he’s pretending, he’s working up to something else, he must be...lulling Martin into a false sense of security...

Or worse...he _is_ being genuine. He’s...this is worse than the teasing. This is so, so much worse, and his face is heating up again with a mixture of anger and humiliation. He stands up without thinking,

‘No – you keep it,’ he fires irritably at Douglas, making to stride towards the door, even though he has barely started the paperwork he needs to do. ‘I don’t need it.’

‘Martin –’

‘I’m not pathetic!’ He shouts, whirling back around – some part of him is screaming for him to shut up, _right now_ , and not embarrass himself even further, but a larger, indignant, furious part of him (furious at himself or Douglas or Carolyn, he isn’t entirely sure), eggs him on slyly, fuelling his outburst. ‘I don’t need your money, I earn my own, just not _here_ – I don’t need your _pity_!’

‘Martin, I wasn’t –'

But Martin has already stormed out of the room, slamming the door violently behind him.

000000

“Ridiculous” doesn’t even begin to cover how bad Martin feels right now. As usual, in his always fruitless attempts to win at _something_ , he’s managed to fail by being victorious. In the single blind instant when he agreed to the bet, he had dared to suppose that this was one situation in which he _couldn’t lose_. Even had they landed late (as they well should have, the part of his mind still horrified by his actions in flying through a thunderstorm, admonishes him), he would not have had to pay Douglas anything. That, at the time, seemed the ultimate way to defeat Douglas – by losing to him. It wouldn’t have seemed so bad, revealing his lack of pay, had it been in order to trick Douglas...

Instead, he has managed to stick to the habit of a lifetime, and lose – even by winning.

And he has never felt more utterly stupid than he does right now – fighting off tears and leaning against the door, trying to think of anything by getting _pity_ from _Douglas_ , of all people. He feels like an adolescent girl, hiding in the toilets and weeping like a child – _but he’s not, he’s not crying, he won’t let himself cry._

The thing is – the completely stupid thing is – he likes it here. Here as in, MJN Air, not here as in a locked lavatory cubicle. He _likes_ working for the most laughable excuse for an airdot in the world, for nothing. There’s something inherently and inexplicably endearing about Gertie, borderline un-flyable as her many faults and quirks sometimes make her. Something comforting about bumbling, incompetent Arthur and his unshakable delight in the face of just about everything. About Carolyn’s acerbity and money-scrounging. Even about Douglas, and his endless taunts.

About all of it, there is something altogether – _homely_. He _likes_ it, he _enjoys_ it, and he doesn’t need Douglas or anyone else looking down on him for doing it for free. This is his hobby, not his job, and he doesn’t want to face the inevitable teasing that will ensue as part of his admission to Douglas. He doesn’t want to ruin this – whatever this is, in the end. Job. Hobby. Home. He almost catches himself thinking _family_ , and quickly stops it before it can take hold. The last thing he needs is Douglas finding that out, too...

000000

It’s a relief to Martin to find himself back at his flat. It’s hardly much, and he’s never really got round to assigning it the label of _home_ , as such, but it’s not a plane, a van, or a hotel room, so for want of anything better to call it – home it can be. Sort of.

As he unlocks the flat with a key that sticks three times before turning, and kicks the door when it refuses to budge, all Martin has any intention of doing when he gets inside is sleeping. It’s early, but he’s exhausted, and all he wants to do is forget this whole day has even happened. He doesn’t notice the cardboard box until he’s halfway into the flat, catching the plain brown edge out of the corner of his eye and stopping.

He turns back curiously – he isn’t expecting any packages, and surely they would not simply be left out like this if he was? It’s not a large box – neat and rectangular with a label reading _Martin Crieff_ on the top, but no address. Personally delivered, then. But by whom?

He picks it up gingerly, with the same trepidation a schoolboy might exhibit on being called the Headmaster’s office without knowing what he has done wrong. Sinking onto his threadbare sofa with the box still in his hands, Martin inspects it closely, as though expecting to find some clue to the sender or the contents. It’s just a box – a plain box with no clues whatsoever; Martin frowns, and uses his keys to slit the tape across the top, flipping it open and peering inside.

He stops. Stares for a moment, or several. Lifts the bottle carefully from the padding and turns it over in his hands, still frowning, now with a dawning idea – an impossible idea – of who it might be from. Suddenly he feels sick, guilt rushing in on him again.

Martin knows very little about wine. Enough to distinguish between red and white, and know that anything really worth drinking is probably out of his price range. And enough to know that this particular bottle looks to be _very much_ out of his price range. Very, very much.

He puts it back in the box, deciding to return it to Douglas tomorrow.

00000

The next day, Douglas denies all knowledge of the wine and reverts to teasing him half-heartedly about the possibility of a secret admirer. Martin is unconvinced, but nothing he says can wheedle a confession from the older man, who resolutely continues to feign complete ignorance in the matter. In the end, all Martin can do is let the matter drop, and hope that the gift was some sort of token effort to announce a truce on the bet. He even almost manages to convince himself that Douglas might be telling the truth, despite his own protestations that a secret admirer would more likely try chocolates or flowers or something equally low-budget and cliché, rather than wine worth – well, Martin doesn’t want to think about the exact price. It makes his head hurt.

He has decided to let it drop – not to drink the wine (which Douglas refused to take back) – but to forget he ever received it – when he gets back home that evening. Then he discovers the door does not stick at all when he opens it, and his key works on the first attempt.

Luck, he tells himself. Pure luck.

 _As if he has any._

00000

Three days later, Martin finds another package with his name on it, this time on his desk. It contains a new mobile phone. Ignoring the urge to just accept it – a certain longing for such luxuries as brand new technology and expensive wines surfacing with an ache he has long since got used to – he puts it back in the box and moves it to Douglas’s desk.

Douglas, again, claims not to know a thing.

Martin’s discomfort grows even more.

00000

A week after that, and sporadic gifts are still surfacing – some practical, some expensive, once simply a novelty mug with the word _Captain_ emblazoned across it in two inch high red letters.

Douglas refuses to take them back and Martin has nowhere else to send them, but he can’t bring himself to use any of them, so a small pile develops on his kitchen counter, his ‘mystery’ gifts that he has no idea what to do with.

Douglas has not mentioned once Martin’s lack of pay, or the bet. Martin still imagines he can feel either anger or pity in Douglas’s gaze whenever he looks at him, and can’t decide which would be worse.

He has never felt this guilty.

When the very latest edition of _Flight Simulator_ makes its way through his letterbox – and he is sure it has not been released in the UK yet (Douglas must have got it while they were in San Francisco) – he decides it is the final straw, and once more confronts Douglas directly.

000000

‘I assure you, Martin, I know nothing at all about it,’

‘Then who gave me it? Who’s been giving me all this stuff, if it isn’t you? Look, I’ve already said, I don’t need –’

‘You won the money fair and square,’ Douglas interrupts, with infuriating calmness. ‘ _I_ certainly wouldn’t refuse it.’

‘You wouldn’t have been able to,’ Martin replies obstinately, holding up the game and trying to hand it to Douglas, who doesn’t take it. ‘I didn’t play fair and we both know it, can we just forget this ever happened?’

‘Martin, really –’

‘Seriously, Douglas, I can’t take this – just forget it okay? Keep your money, you win! As usual, I don’t –’

‘Martin –’

‘Are you planning on just buying me things until you’ve spent three months salary, is that it? I won’t accept these and I won’t accept the money. I don’t need your pity. I do fine. I just –’

‘ _Martin_ ,’ Douglas cuts him off again, more firmly this time. He takes the game, only to lay it on the desk that stands between them and push it towards Martin once more. ‘You are an infuriating, jobs-worth, prissy, proud, and impossibly unlucky man –’ Martin feels himself reddening and opens his mouth to protest irritably, but Douglas continues without giving him a chance ‘– but I don’t pity you in the slightest.’

‘Look,’ begins Martin, decided to ignore the tirade of insults so as not to be sidetracked, ‘I –’

‘Scout’s honour,’ Douglas says, and Martin finds himself smiling for some reason at the slight twitch of Douglas’s lips as he speaks. Then he takes a filled cheque from his pocket and holds it out to Martin. ‘If you don’t take the money, I’ll just have to give it to Arthur. Take it, for God’s sake, and save us all. Can you imagine trying to fly Gertie with that many custard creams inside?’

Martin laughs reluctantly at the image. He _wants_ to accept. God knows he _could_ do with the money, and he can’t read a word of a lie in Douglas’s countenance – but then, Douglas is a world class liar and if he wants Martin to believe him, he will have no real trouble making him do so, truth or otherwise. But he _can’t_...he just...can’t. It’s too much. And it still doesn’t seem fair.

‘Martin,’ Douglas says, quietly. His voice is more serious and genuine than Martin has ever heard it, and this alone carries more weight than any of his long-winded, sarcastic explanations or rationalisations. ‘Just take the money.’

Martin hesitates. For a second he is going to repeat his earlier sentiments, from the first time Douglas used that sentence on him. He starts to protest, and stops himself. He can’t...he can’t...but...he looks at Douglas’s face. Reads in it something he can’t quite place; an unspoken agreement of some sort; a ceasefire. Reaching out a hand – that is _not_ trembling, really it’s not – he finally speaks.

‘Thanks, Douglas.’

 


End file.
